


Keeping Up with the Trevelyans

by Red_Dwarf



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Light Angst, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-14 08:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16489148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Dwarf/pseuds/Red_Dwarf
Summary: The 7th (or was it 8th?) most illustrious family in Ostwick are used to keeping up appearances. Their youngest child, Ida, is used to being the spare and being destined for an easy life of casual hedonism.Then Bann Trevelyan sends her as a representative to the Conclave - setting off a chain of events that throw the family name into jeopardy, and throw Ida into Thedas' complicated web of religion and politics.It will take all four Trevelyan siblings to keep their name from ruin.





	1. Halcyon Days

_Val Royeaux, 9:39 Dragon_

Evelyn stepped down from the carriage and into the streets of Val Royeaux, sliding an Orlesian half-mask down over her face. The du Beauforts may have been her relatives, but their servants would still look down on her as a Marcher savage if she arrived barefaced – she abhorred the thought.

The house belonging to the aforementioned du Beauforts lay at the end of the present street. It made up in location what it lacked in size; a stone’s throw from Val Royeaux’s markets, and with quite the panoramic cityscape visible from its front balcony. 

Her sharp raps of the knocker were answered promptly, the du Beauforts’ sour-faced butler giving her an inscrutable once-over. Coolly, he led her to the crowded drawing room and announced her presence.

“Lady Evelyn Pentaghast.” 

“Trevelyan,” she corrected tersely; as the heir to the bannorn, Evelyn kept her surname even after marriage.

Bowing stiffly, the butler left. He’d served the du Beauforts for as long as Evelyn could remember, and had never been fond of her.

“Cousin Evelyn!” Alexandre wound his way toward her, his chevaliers’ training keeping his gait steady even when alcohol had clearly already taken hold. “Forgive us if we still call you Trevelyan in this house. Where is our beloved Mr Pentaghast tonight?”

“Beloved? Cousin Alexandre, you hardly know the man.” Still, she laughed a little. “He is engaged in Nevarra and couldn’t come.”

Evelyn was saved from elaborating on her recent marriage by the appearance of her younger brother Maxwell. “Evelyn! We arrived from Ostwick this morning, after James was finally given leave from the Circle. The Chantry let me go quite readily.” Maxwell was a scholar at Ostwick’s Chantry.

“I suspect they want you to write about your impressions of the Grand Cathedral or something,” she replied, eyebrows raised in amusement.

While greeting her brother, she cast about the room for her other two siblings. The drawing room was small, and she located Ida immediately. To nobody’s surprise, her sister was sat at the table playing Wicked Grace with a group of vague relatives, and no doubt cheating outrageously.

James was stood beside the open balcony doors, cornered by a great-uncle she recognised from one of Aunt Lucille’s summer balls. Noticing Evelyn, he caught her eye with a pained expression. 

“Uncle Laurence heard he was a templar and is telling him about a brother of his who was a templar. I believe he won’t let James go until he has told the whole epic saga of this poor man’s life.”

Evelyn couldn’t help laughing at this comment of Maxwell’s. “How I’ve missed these Trevelyan family gatherings.” 

This wasn’t even all of their family – many hadn’t been invited or couldn’t make the trip to Val Royeaux, and still the du Beauforts’ city home was full to bursting.

“Perhaps we should rescue Cousin James,” Alexandre remarked.

Evelyn nodded. “What a shame there isn’t room here for you two to hold one of your famous duels.” 

Ever since James had been twelve and Alexandre fourteen, they had been testing each other’s swordsmanship whenever the opportunity was presented. Alexandre invariably won, but that hadn’t stopped James from trying in earnest – even after he’d injured his left leg and it had never quite healed right.

As she’d spoken, Maxwell had begun to navigate the crowd of nobles to reach the balcony on the other side of the room. Not wishing to lose sight of him, Evelyn followed trailed by Alexandre. A servant drifted past, bearing glasses of Antivan wine and Evelyn plucked one from her when offered.

“… And imagine if that had just happened in the middle of a village! Anyone who thinks they aren’t locked up for a reason is a damned fool.” 

Great-Uncle Laurence’s voice carried toward Evelyn like one of the gongs they used to warn ships near Ostwick. As she broke free of the crowd, she could see his weathered face was flushed red with drink and James, leaning in the entrance to the balcony, looked uncomfortable. Clearly, any anecdotes about Laurence’s brother had degenerated into one of his usual vitriolic rants against mages and James appeared trapped.

Maxwell gave her an infinitesimal nod and she stepped forward. “Uncle Laurence, it must be almost a year since I last saw you! You look well.” And just as intolerable.

“Hm. I hear you are married now, Evelyn? Very good – it would be improper for you to inherit the bannorn without a husband at your side.”

Internally, Evelyn tensed but did everything in her power to maintain an outward coolness. “Quite. I believe Madame du Beaufort was asking after you – you would do well not to keep her waiting.”

At this, he inflated and strutted off in search of the lady of the house. 

James breathed a sigh of relief and Alexandre shook his head. “My mother won’t forgive you, you know.”

“Oh, she will,” Evelyn stepped out onto the balcony, sipping from her wine glass. “And I handled it with more diplomacy than you would have, admit it.”

Her cousin laughed, following her out. Inside, James was caught up in conversation with Maxwell and the sounds of revelry melted into one indistinct hum.

It was still a little light outside, a bloody sunset sinking behind the silhouetted Grand Cathedral. A comfortable, hazy evening silence swelled up between them and Alexandre looked statuesque for a moment. He was leaning on the balcony’s railing, his profile losing its clarity in the low light; black curls spilled uncontained over his forehead, and she saw less of her Orlesian uncle in him and more of Alexandre’s Rivaini mother.

It was disconcerting. Evelyn enjoyed spending time with him because it was like a gateway into childhood, the years they’d been close simply because they were the same age. Whenever she was with Alexandre, she always saw the child in him but now he was all adult and he looked almost a stranger.

Then James tumbled between them, the wine on his breath mingling with his familiar lightning-strike scent of lyrium. His half-mask was pushed up into his thick dark brown hair, giving it the appearance of a crown.

“Thank the Maker you saved me from him, Evelyn.” He took a long gulp of wine. “He makes me want to leave the Order.”

“Is that so?” Alexandre turned to them. “We chevaliers at least have a sense of loyalty.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. As much as she believed there was no true animosity between them, they couldn’t be in each other’s presence without sparring – verbally or physically, if their duels were taken into account. 

“Honestly, I am sure you two are possessed by Pride demons.”

James looked faintly affronted, as she was sure it was a Templar’s duty to be, but before he could speak Ida barrelled onto the landing carrying a glass of some strange Orlesian liqueur. 

“Father is drunk enough that it affected his judgement marvellously!” she announced with glee – none too sober herself.

Evelyn laughed. “And by that you mean…?”

“Oh, I never told you I was trying to convince him to send me to the University of Orlais. Education in the Ostwick Chantry really is lacking in art and poetry and philosophy – anything of interest, that is. And wouldn’t living in Orlais be wonderful? The Free Marches are far too provincial.” She was tilting, one arm propping herself on the balcony’s railing and another gesticulating with her glass.

“But remember Val Royeaux is dangerous. You’ll have to be able to play the Game if you’re serious about this.” At Ida’s reproachful look, Evelyn added, “It’s because I care about you.”

And because she was jealous, though she’d never bring herself to admit that aloud. The youngest of the four Trevelyan siblings, Ida had enjoyed all the benefits of a wealthy upbringing and none of the expectations. Evelyn, by contrast, had grown up being groomed for politics and to inherit her family’s property.

“But just think of the romanticism of it,” Ida protested, “think of all the stories.” Ida’s childhood had been filled with books and she seemed to think she lived in one at times. 

“She has a point,” James said quietly, “Remember when we had to bail you out of Ostwick jail? The dungeons in Val Royeaux aren’t so forgiving.”

Alexandre was laughing. “Don’t be morbid, James. You really shouldn’t insult Val Royeaux if you’ve never lived here. And I believe one of our esteemed relatives is proposing a toast.”

They turned towards the building’s crowded interior and raised their glasses along with the mixture of Trevelyans, du Beauforts and other lingering nobles.

When Evelyn would come to reflect on that day, she thought that perhaps it was the last time they had all seemed so young and promising.


	2. The Wrath of Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trevelyans' youngest wakes up in handcuffs and meets her favourite author.

_Frostback Mountains, 9:41 Dragon_

There was no definitive moment of awakening, no plunging from a dream as if surfacing from icy waters. Ida instead became aware of sensations: the floor, cold and unyielding, pressing against her knees. An unnatural heat in her left hand that prickled and flared in irregular bursts.

As she regained sensation, the heat rose to a flame of agony, forcing her eyes open. She became aware of the weathered stones beneath her, a faded Chantry sunburst carved into the ground at her knees. Her wrists were bound in metal that restricted any movement. 

And then there was the strange light. It was cold and eerie, and when reflected in the cell’s damp walls gave everything a green cast. She noticed to her horror that the light source seemed to be her throbbing left hand, and when she opened it for inspection it flared bright in protest. 

A few moments, and the bitter irony sank in. All her family’s bets about how soon she’d get into trouble in Val Royeaux – and the moment she left the city, she woke up in prison. 

Then the door swung open with a crash, and a woman stalked in. She had a warrior’s build and a determined posture, her eyes beneath the crop of dark hair narrow and glaring. 

“The Divine is dead, and so is everyone who attended the Conclave. Except for you.” She circled Ida and came to rest pointing an accusatory finger at her head.

Everybody was dead. She was only supposed to represent her family, and what had happened? She’d killed everybody? 

“I wish I could remember, but I don’t know what happened,” the words came out desperate and fragile.

“You’re lying!” The woman yelled, her voice fraying.

Another woman – hooded, redheaded – chased the first back. She seemed unnaturally talented at blending into the shadows, so much so that Ida hadn’t registered her at first. 

“We need her, Cassandra.”

Cassandra? There was suddenly no doubt as to who she was: Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine and unwitting relative of Ida Trevelyan. 

“Cassandra Pentaghast?” Her words only seemed to sharpen the woman’s glare. “Surely there’s a mistake here – my sister is married to a relative of yours, and…”

“I’m not here to discuss lineage.” Cassandra forced Ida to her feet as she spoke, thrusting her out of the cell. “Follow me. It will be easier to show you.”

Questions forming and dying on her lips, Ida stumbled forward and followed Cassandra with her hands still bound before her. She cleared her throat, determined to regain some composure.

“You know, the last time a charming woman had me in chains,” she gasped out through the throbbing in her hand, “the circumstances were quite different…”

Quite a fabrication, but it had the desired effect. Cassandra emitted an unladylike choking sound and shot her a deadly glare – but noticeably restrained from violence.

When the doors were opened, Ida flinched from the sudden bright glare. It was daytime, she was sure, but the light was swallowed up in stormy clouds. They swirled about a point – a gaping tear in the sky, the same green as the mark on her hand, and the two felt inexorably drawn to each other.

“That’s the Breach,” Cassandra explained, “A rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. Unless we act, it may grow until it destroys the world.”

Any reply of Ida’s was swallowed up in an involuntary cry of pain. She fell to her knees in the snow, clenching her hand into a fist as though she could crush the mark within.

Cassandra hauled her to her feet. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads – it is killing you.” 

“And you’re going to close the Breach. Aren’t you?” Ida couldn’t fight the trembling in her voice. 

"I'm not." Cassandra looked almost pitying. "We believe you are the only one capable of doing so.”

Right. With her magic hand. From what little she had gleaned so far, Ida could feel how she was implicated in this: presumably Cassandra thought she created the Breach, and knew how to destroy it. 

“But you will not be alone,” she continued, “Leliana will send her spies up the mountain path, and Cullen’s soldiers will hold off the demons in the valley. We are going to meet Varric and Solas.”

“Varric… As in, Tethras?” Ida appeared to have awoken in a gathering of important people.

“Unfortunately. He has a habit of being present in situations like these.”

In actual fact, when they met Varric, her awe at his presence was short-lived – overshadowed by a hovering, pulsing green light that had been spawning demons just a few seconds ago. The other companion – Solas, she presumed – grabbed her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip for a skinny elven mage, and thrust it towards the light. 

She felt a tugging; her left hand unfurled involuntarily and was overcome with white-hot pain as it seemed to anchor with the light. Then there was an overwhelming release and the green thing collapsed. Ida staggered, glad of Solas still holding her up and glad that Cassandra had had the presence of mind to remove her handcuffs while they walked. 

“So…” she stared at the elf after he relinquished his grip. “My hand. If it closes these, it’ll close the Breach.”

“That is what I theorised, and it appeared I was correct.” She recognised in Solas the kind of academic smugness the lecturers in Val Royeaux had when they won a debate.

“So, it looks like you’ll save us,” Varric remarked, slinging an impressive crossbow onto his back. “Maybe we won’t be ass-deep in demons forever.” 

“Well here you go, Trevelyan – Varric Tethras.” Cassandra’s tone had grown icicles, “Does he live up to your expectations?”

If she wasn’t already up to her full capacity of fear and shock and awe, Ida might have been tongue-tied. As it was, she felt herself taken over with an inane smile. Here was the author who’d earned five out of five scarves fluttered in the Randy Dowager Quarterly – not that she had a taste for the salacious, of course. And more importantly, if she ever returned to university she was in the midst of an essay on heroism in literature, and could really use his input on Tale of the Champion.

“I have so many questions about Hawke," Ida knew she was gushing and couldn't stop herself, "And I don’t suppose you’ll sign my copy of Tale of the Champion, will you? If the Breach doesn’t kill us all, of course.”

Varric threw a sidelong look at Cassandra. “Everyone seems to have questions about Hawke. But I’ll tell you what – get us out of here alive, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like just writing scripted copies of the game events, so as the story unfolds there'll be more chance to play with canon :D (and I'll be exploring how the whole family is affected, not just Ida)  
> And coming up next, chevaliers.


	3. Death in the Dales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Trevelyans' cousin and his fellow chevaliers deal with the fallout from the Breach... I probably made this a bit dramatic, but in-game the Exalted Plains situation does seem pretty dire.  
> (I really wish I could've called this chapter 'Death of a Dalesman' but it doesn't fit the lore properly... rip a great pun opportunity)

_Exalted Plains, 9:41 Dragon_

“Merde!”

Losing his footing, Alexandre swore loudly as he slipped down in the churned-up mud. He heard the dreaded squelching steps of approaching undead, unimpeded by the rain and cold. With a grunt of effort, he dragged himself up on the hilt of his sword and then wrenched his blade free, sending it in a smooth arc that decapitated the nearest corpse.

It was inexplicable. Yesterday they had been patrolling the ramparts, preparing to withdraw to Fort Revasan, and then that morning they had been overwhelmed by hordes of reanimated bodies. 

The undead had been converging on them all day, and holding them off was arduous. If there had been a long enough break in the rain, they could have built a pyre to burn the bodies, but as it was every casualty added to the enemy ranks.

“We need to retreat,” Camille called, her voice ragged.

Her shield was raised in a defensive position, Gaspard’s lion obscured by streaks of mud. Alexandre nodded, bracing himself and holding his shield so it would take the brunt of any onslaught.

A sharp cry alerted him and the recruit to his right fell, overwhelmed. “Henri!”

Henri called back, but his words were swallowed and trampled by the undead that marched over his body. Sickened, Alexandre turned away. He wished he’d have seen some last vestige of humanity in the boy – a pale smudge of face behind the curtains of rain, perhaps, but Henri died behind a closed visor.

He glanced to whoever was left – only Camille and Louis remained. Louis was the senior chevalier among them, broad and built for endurance. Flanking him was impossible, and his resilience was legendary. 

Louis caught his eye. “Get back, Alexandre.”

“What happened to ‘death before dishonour?” Alexandre challenged.

“You won’t honour anybody by dying here and losing this war!” Louis’s voice rose to a shout to contend with the driving rain.

Even as he listened, Alexandre lost focus and a blade bit into his sword arm. He whirled in time to watch the responsible undead fall to a sword stroke from Camille.

Conceding at last to the Chevalier-Commander, Alexandre bowed his head and followed Camille in retreat.

“Maker rest your soul,” she called back.

Any reply was swallowed up in a sudden howl of wind. The two of them half-slid down the splintered wood and into the trench, groping blindly for the shelter. An absence of light in the braziers meant the journey took longer than it should’ve, but they eventually ducked under into safety.

“He’ll put up a fight.” Alexandre said this matter-of-factly, but his voice came out hollow with loss.

Camille only nodded, tugging off her helmet. The two of them proceeded in grim silence, removing their respective armour and setting it out for cleaning.

Though his back was respectfully turned, Alexandre became aware of Camille’s voice drifting across to him. 

_The Light shall lead her safely_  
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.  
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. 

Camille wasn’t known as a singer, but anybody could sing the Chant, and her voice in that moment was high and clear and steady. Hesitantly, Alexandre turned. Having slung a dry cloak over her shoulders, she was lighting what few candles lay about the trench and setting them atop the stacks of supply crates. 

Without announcement, Alexandre joined her. He was perhaps an even worse singer, but he’d spent enough of his childhood in a Chantry choir to know how to harmonise. It was a melancholy tune – a chant for the departed souls – and Alexandre felt his hands tremble a little as he tipped his unlit candle into one of Camille’s and let the flame catch on. 

_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

Syncopated, the rain’s rhythm on the roof of the trench added a strange undertone to their song. It was ethereal; the candles were reminiscent of the Chantry, while outside war and death raged on. 

Henri and Louis. A Chant for the Departed.

Camille turned to him. “We can’t stay here. Tomorrow, we need to get back into Fort Revasan and find Marshall Proulx – there’ll be less undead by daylight.”

“If we don’t find him, we’ll only die here instead,” Alexandre agreed, “if it’s dry enough, we can burn the bodies in the morning.”

It was the most uneasy sleep he’d had in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> The tongue-in-cheek title probably belies the angst I'll end up dragging my characters through, haha.  
> I overhauled the first chapter to be more of an introduction to the Trevelyans' extended family and give more context to the rest of the story. :)  
> 


End file.
